Round Three
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: How the new kid in the block met the Marin County chapter of the Can-Am gang.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, as always, for the beta-support, Owl and Cheri.

**Author's Note: **The Lone Ranger was supposed to be going after 200 people who walked out of his courtroom on technicalities, but right from the start Mark's business kept getting in the way. In two of their first five escapades ("Rolling Thunder" and "The Crystal Duck") Mark's friends had been victims. In the sixth ("The Boxer"), once again, they become aware of Kid Calico's problems because he'd been an old prison buddy of McCormick's. That's odder than it sounds, given that San Quentin in the 80s was a society deeply divided along lines of racial and gang affiliation. We've got some 'splainin' to do…

**Round Three**

by L.M. Lewis

I am older than I once was, and younger than I'll be . . ." Paul Simon—"The Boxer"

It was a Friday afternoon in late December. The time of day rarely made much impression on McCormick anymore. His office was conveniently lacking in windows and there was never enough time to get done in one day what he had to get done. On this occasion, though, he'd made a promise to be somewhere at six p.m. and it was evident that Hardcastle wasn't going to let him slip up and forget about it. He was standing in the doorway even now, checking his watch.

"It's four-thirty."

Mark barely looked up, and was heard to mutter, "This isn't one of those things you have to be right on time for."

"Yeah, it is," the judge said, ornery in his convictions. "Besides, if I let you, you'll keep working straight on through dinner, so pack it up, kiddo."

Mark sat back a little stiffly, like a man who'd been hunched over for too long. He let out a heavy sigh and pushed away from the desk.

"I suppose you're right," he grudged. "And it is a special occasion and all."

"Yup. Not every day an old buddy retires."

Mark half-winced, hearing it out loud like that. "He's younger then me by a couple of years; you know that?" He shook his head as he stood, taking his jacket from the back of the chair where he'd draped it hours ago. "I dunno, it's strange. It doesn't seem right."

"Different line of work. Some of 'em stick it out, but thirty-five is plenty old for a fighter."

Mark nodded. It wasn't that he didn't understand all that, it just felt oddly disconnected: here was Kid Calico—a kid no more—retiring, while he himself, the older of the two, had only taken up his own profession barely eighteen months ago.

"Besides," Hardcastle interrupted his thoughts, "it's not like he's gonna be sitting back in a rocking chair. I hear the Youth League is angling for him to take over as director of their state-wide boxing program. And his dad tells me he's been in pretty high demand the last couple of years. He gives talks to at-risk kids, tries to get 'em to sign up for sports programs instead of getting into gangs."

Mark smiled. "Yeah, he told me about some of that when we got together last week. Anyway, I think it's good he's getting out while he's still on top."

"Now yer cookin'. But come on, we gotta hustle or we'll miss the champagne."

00000

They didn't miss the champagne, which was flowing in a dignified fashion. The press was there, both the local outlets and the national sports rags, in honor of Calico's most recent win. There was an air of regret in that quarter. Many had hoped for this to be the announcement of an upcoming challenge match to determine an undisputed champion. Nobody wanted to hear that the Kid was calling it quits.

Mark and the judge were ushered to a table near the dais. Their host hadn't made his entrance yet, but his father stood nearby, shaking his head in polite refusal at the occasional reporter who wandered too near. Spotting his latest guests, he intercepted them before they sat down.

"Didn't know it was going to be such a madhouse," he said apologetically. "The mayor said we couldn't just have a little get-together. Had to be this." He gestured to the glittering room and the linen-draped tables that would collectively seat about a hundred and fifty. "Had to make room for some Olympic officials and a lot of other big wheels."

"Don't worry," Mark assured him, "we understand all this stuff. Another ice swan for progress."

"You saw that, huh? I thought maybe it oughta be a guy throwing a left cross. A swan doesn't seem real appropriate, if you ask me."

"Swans are what people expect, though. You can't go wrong with a swan and those little corn on the cob things."

"Yeah, we got those, too," Jack grinned. "Well, listen, we'll get this thing underway in a couple of minutes. The mayor and the Olympic guys get to make their speeches, my kid says a couple of words, and we'll get on with the party. How's that sound?"

"Like a plan. You go on and get things rolling. We'll sit here and clap when we're supposed to," Hardcastle said, extending a hand to shake Jack's.

"Thanks." The older Calico returned the shake vigorously. "I keep thinking how much different everything woulda turned out if my boy hadn't run into Mark here, way back then."

Mark got a handshake of his own and a slap on the shoulder. Then Jack turned and headed off to round up his son from wherever he'd been cornered for an exclusive interview. The two men settled into their seats, forgoing all the delights of the canapés table.

"He's right, you know," Hardcastle said. He gazed around at their surroundings, as if picturing a far different ending to the story.

"Yeah," Mark admitted, "I'm glad you listened to me that morning—about going over and catching that bout of his at the Auditorium. If we hadn't, we never would have known Kane was putting the squeeze on him and his dad."

There was no immediate comment from the judge. Mark glanced sideward at him and was surprised by the man's dissatisfied expression.

"I don't think Jack was talking about us coming backstage at the Auditorium that night," the judge finally drawled. "I think he meant further back than that."

Mark squinted slightly, first in the direction of the departed Calico Sr., then sharply back at Hardcastle. He let out a heavy breath and said, "Is this going to be one of those 'every cloud has a silver lining' kind of things? Because if it is, I'm going back over by that swan to get a couple of those corn on the cobs so I won't have to listen to it."

"I didn't say that," the judge arched one eyebrow. "Might be true," he slipped in a swift mutter, "but I didn't say it."

"Well . . . _don't_." Mark leaned back, slouching a little with his arms crossed defiantly in front of him. He stared rigidly straight ahead, though still fully aware of the now-silent Hardcastle.

The silence didn't last long before he heard Hardcastle say, "I was just wondering, that's all—"

"'Bout what?" Mark asked. His tone was milder, tinted with a little guilt for having taken offense where none was intended.

"I guess I always wondered," Hardcastle frowned, "'bout you and the Kid, being friends in prison."

"Huh?" Mark thought he knew what the guy was getting at, but he was in no mood to make it easy for him.

"Let's face it," the judge said gruffly, "Quentin's not exactly a place where there's a lot of mingling."

Hearing it put that way came close to getting a laugh from McCormick. He finally gave in to a sharp grin and said, "You mean it has a lot of cliques? Kind of like being in high school only with more home-made knives?"

"Yeah . . . kinda."

"And me and the Kid, we don't look like we belonged on the same team, huh?"

Hardcastle nodded, still giving him a quizzical look.

"Well, you're right about that," Mark conceded. "And lots of guys figured the only way to survive was to join up with a gang, but Calico never had. He said his dad made sure of that when he was growing up and he didn't see any reason to change just because he was in prison."

"And you didn't either."

"Sure I did." Mark smiled wryly. "I belonged to the 'Can-Ams'—all the guys who'd been on the circuit before they'd ended up inside. 'Course there was only one of us in the San Quentin chapter, but that made it real easy to get a quorum for the quarterly business meetings."

It might have come across as bitter, but Mark's rapid-fire patter had a hint of humor to it. He knew it was all some kind of weird self-defense. It still happened on those uncommon occasions when Quentin came up in conversations between Hardcastle and him. He wondered if he'd ever get past that.

He sighed and his smile down-shifted. "To you I might've looked like another two-time felon but, believe me, I was way out of my league up there. Anyway, it was Buddy Denton, my old cellie—"

"Millie's husband?" Hardcastle asked, looking glad to be back on slightly safer ground.

"Yeah, him. Calico ended up on our tier. Buddy heard the guard call him by name. Buddy's the one who recognized it right off. Said he had to be the son of _the_ Jack Calico. He remembered him—just like you did."

"Lots of guys remember Jack."

"And Buddy, well, you gotta understand, I never thought he was dangerous—not to me, anyway—but a guy who's been in as long as he had, the first seven years on death row . . ." Mark paused, shaking his head. He fixed Hardcastle with a steady gaze. "Even in Quentin, most people respect that. For one thing, somebody who's survived that long, hmm, well, you think twice before you mix it up with someone like that."

"Makes sense."

"And he kept it to himself a lot of the time; you never really knew what he was thinking. So the real bad guys, they had to decide for themselves what was going on in his head and, honestly, I think most of the time they had enough imagination for themselves _and_ Buddy."

"But you—?"

"We got along okay enough. I think I was kind of a hobby for him. Keep a guy from being chopped up in the meat grinder, teach him how to survive—it passes the time, you know?"

This got a grunt of acknowledgment from the judge, who himself had called McCormick an expensive hobby once or twice when tuition bills had come due.

"So, anyway, there's Calico, and one or two other guys must've recognized the name, too. It's like a gunslinger walking into a bar in the Old West. Word gets around and pretty soon the punks are lining up. 'He don't look so tough, bet I could take him,' stuff like that. And the Kid, he was just barely a welterweight then. Kinda on the skinny side—he'd spent a couple months waiting trial at county and the food there is crap. Worse than Quentin."

"I know," Hardcastle said ruefully.

"Right." Mark nodded, then jabbed a sharp glance in his direction, brought back from his musings. "I think that was a good experience for you—being a guest of LA County for a couple of days."

"Stick to the story, will ya? The mayor's gonna be here any minute. How'd ya meet Calico?"

Mark grinned. "Well, like I said, there's the Kid, getting hassled like you wouldn't believe. And skinny or not he probably coulda taken any one of them in a fair fight, but most of those guys weren't looking for that. And, anyway, if he got into a fight, win or lose he'd just end up getting punished for it. We could tell he was going out of his way to avoid 'em."

"That was the smart thing to do."

"Nope. Here, yeah, there, definitely not. If you back down there you're dead meat."

Hardcastle frowned and finally nodded reluctantly.

"But Quentin, see, has a boxing program."

Hardcastle nodded again.

"And Buddy and me, we got to talking about it, and we figured what the Kid needed to do was settle it, for once and for all—not with these punks in a blind, one at a time . . . or even a couple of 'em together."

"Too inefficient, huh?"

"Exactly. Buddy said he should fight this guy, Rowley Whitestone. He was a lifer who weighed at least 200 pounds and spent every rec period out in the yard doing power lifting. He was built like a tank."

"That's 'cause Buddy knew guys like that might be able to throw somebody across the ring, but they can't necessarily hit, huh?"

"Yup," Mark said cheerfully. "He'd seen him duking it out with another guy in a brawl a couple years back and he said Rowley _moved_ like a tank, too."

"Tanks can run you over you know."

"Uh-huh. That's why, after I introduced myself to the Kid and convinced him it was a good plan, I was the one who got to be his sparring partner. The whole idea was that he had to practice not charging in. I was way faster then Rowley, and we'd go three minutes with me trying to tag the Kid and him dancing. Mostly he didn't even lay a glove on me—saved all that for the heavy bag—and I _never_ laid a glove on him." Mark sat back with a smile on his face.

"So," Hardcastle's expression had gone thoughtful, like a man who was a connoisseur of the con, "everyone who watched—including this Rowley character, thought the Kid was a sissy, huh?"

"Precisely. Come time for the annual event—Fourth of July, ya know—everybody thinks the Kid's gonna get to see some fireworks, lying flat on his back on the canvas."

"But the weight difference—"

"Well, nobody else wanted to get in the ring with Rowley, and there's no rule that says you can't challenge _above_ your class. Look at that guy you like so much, the one who fought Louis—"

"Billy Conn. Yeah, but he _lost_."

"And it was only—what?—thirty pounds difference, right? This was more like fifty, maybe more." Mark grinned but didn't entirely fake his shudder. "Oh, yeah, it's funny now, but at the time even I was a little nervous, and I _knew_ what the Kid could do."

"All he had to do was slip up once—let the guy get one punch in," Hardcastle pointed out soberly. "And that was assuming the fight went clean."

"Well, we did have the extra ref."

The judge raised one eyebrow.

"The guy up on the catwalk with the submachine gun. One of those fine old San Quentin Boxing Society traditions."

"Ahh."

"And, well, the Kid stuck to the plan. The first round he made Rowley lumber after him, bobbed and weaved and let him swing himself silly. Then, when he got him sweated up and slowed down, he moved in and gave him a solid one-two—chin and right alongside the eye. Rowley went to his knees, but not all the way out, and then he was saved by the bell."

"You never wanna just wound a grizzly," Hardcastle said practically. "Makes it mad and gets its mind focused."

Mark gave him an odd look, and then shook his head thoughtfully. "That's pretty much what Buddy said, afterward."

"'Cause it's true. Everybody knows that."

"Well, you and Buddy were both right. Round two and Rowley just stands there, won't rise to the bait. The natives are getting restless—no action. The Kid has to take a couple chances, get some hits in, and then Rowley gets lucky and lands a punch in Calico's ribs. He doesn't go down but he barely gets back out of it and this time the bell saves _him_."

"Sounds like Rowley had more brains than you gave him credit for."

"Yeah, it was going to be lucky if it only ended in a decision. I was pretty sure if Rowley got another hit in, it'd be to the same spot, and the Kid already looked like he couldn't take a deep breath 'cause of the damage.

"But then something starts to happen, maybe it'd been going on right from the start and I hadn't noticed. Buddy, see, he didn't mingle much, but for this he'd come out, sat himself up with some of the other older guys—lifers, all of 'em. I hear a couple of hollers from up there between the rounds. They're catcalling Rowley. Calling him out, saying he's a wuss, can't even take on a guy half his size. And, well, pretty soon it starts to catch on, enough so that the guard up on the catwalk is getting nervous."

"Bet Rowley didn't like that much."

"Hell no. Here he's fighting this guy who won't stand still and let him _swat_ him, for crissake, and now all these other guys—who usually stood aside respectfully when he walked through the exercise yard—they're calling him _names_. You could see the fuse burning, and when the bell sounded for the third round he goes stomping out like he'd just been fooling around up till then."

Hardcastle winced.

"Yeah, but he was third round tired and, except for his ribs, the Kid was still pretty fresh. I mean, he was used to _me_ trying to pin him down." Mark shook his head. "Only took another minute before Rowley had worn himself out again. Calico slipped in with another combination and then hammered him a good one. There's not much that muscle-building can do for your head."

"A KO?"

"Yup. Like David and Goliath." Mark smiled with the memory of one pretty excellent San Quentin moment. "And," he added, "that was the end of the punks lining up to have a whack at him. Kid Calico—the lightest heavyweight champion ever."

"Did he do any more fighting after that?"

"Nope, not much. Him and me, we'd spar once in a while, but nobody else was willing to get in the ring with him. Everyone who hadn't seen it at least had heard about it and some of _those_ stories, well, people thought I was crazy for even _sparring_ with him. In Q they called him "Killer Calico". There was even a story out that he was doing time for murder—one punch in a bar brawl." Mark frowned pensively and then added, "I think I might've started that one."

"Whatever works," Hardcastle said scratching his nose and suppressing a smile.

"You betcha . . . and Buddy, well, he said you don't wanna show the secret weapon too much."

"Buddy sounds like he was a pretty smart guy."

"He was," Mark smiled. "And he'd got about a year's worth of smokes betting on the Kid."

"That was his motivation, huh?"

"Well," Mark cocked his head, "You know how it is with guys like that. They can't ever admit they like helping people. It's always got to be about something else—cigarettes, maybe . . . or justice."

Hardcastle opened his mouth but didn't have a chance to defend blind justice as a motivation before a slick-looking guy from the local sport's column was standing up to introduce the mayor.

"Justice is okay," Mark whispered. "Better than cigarettes."


End file.
